He recalls a room
by Sinousine
Summary: Yao. Kiku. Touching scars during the act of "love-making". A chance for a blow-by-blow.


It's always the same room; no windows, no decoration save for the grisly medical charts that punctuate the bland, grey walls of the examination office. Blinding white light overhead floods his vision and the smell of disinfectant takes him back, back to another time, another locked room.

He sits with his legs dangling over the inspection table, naked save for the pastel-turquoise slip of cotton wrapped about his waist. The other parts the cascade of black hair under his grasp, strokes the soft, silky, oily strands with latex gloves, buries his face in it, savoring the sweet jasmine scent as he reveals what lies underneath.

The cut has long settled into a gaping, puckered scar from shoulder to hip. Kiku touches it, tenderly, as one would touch an exotic sea creature trapped inside its glass tank.

_Does it still hurt, _he asks, clutching the clipboard with his other arm.

_Of course._

Yao clutches the fabric that is barely hanging on his form and closes his eyes.

He remembers lying on the hospital bed with the gauze covering his eyes and being unable to move, unable to speak. A hand on his cheek. He remembers hearing voices behind the barrier of the door and the grey spots moving just beyond his field of vision. Voices blurring into one fever dream.

He remembers the searing pain in his back, the thousand-and-one little aches. The capital under fire and the crash of shells, the fields set ablaze –

And then he's back in the hospital room with Kiku, called back from almost-sleep.

He feels the others lips brush against his back, caressing the ridges of the scar. It feels like, it feels like tiny needles. Hands holding his arms up, like the girl in the movie tumbling towards the tragic ending. Kiku nuzzles the small of his back, kisses warmly and gently, laps at the rough, raised skin, slicks it with his saliva.

If he said no, would the other stop? He is enjoying it far too much, pressing harder against bare skin. Kiku elicits a moan from the other, the arch of a muscular back. His hands guide the other to where his neck is discoloured by a serpentine, two-pronged scar.

Whose doing? Yao cannot remember, but remembers hands around his neck. A blade, a knife pressed against it. A threat to damage his pretty face if he didn't –

The memory escapes him, again, and Kiku's attention moves elsewhere. Across his belly Yao has numerous puckers and fault lines, mementos from past conflicts. Like he has for all the others, Kiku kisses there, propping himself against Yao with his arms.

_Good child_, Yao thinks, stroking the other's slicked-back hair.

Hands move down his body, cupping his inner thighs. They circle around, massaging tense muscles, tracing the white lines of minor skirmishes, making Yao feel that much warmer. But when they reach between his legs, intending to caress him there, he pushes Kiku's hand away, like that.

_It's not time yet, not time, Xiao Ju_. The other resigns himself to what he has been allowed. He mouths an apology, an sincere one.

Later

They're all burn wounds. The skin is wrinkled around them where it didn't quite heal properly. Two are them are more like shallow craters, really. Detonation in mid-air. A bright flash of light.

The usual story.

Yao often gives the look of _you deserved this, you had it coming, you knew that those were people your men were –_ , but makes no move to say if he is offended that Kiku should dare compare his aches and pains to his elder's, which must certainly be much greater. He moves his hand, pressing two fingers against the bigger of the two scars, jabs it with fingernails as if to hammer in the reality of the discoloured pucker.

In response, Kiku lowers his gaze, closing his eyes, thinking not of ashes, but of the flowers blooming on that hill and the sea breeze coming from the west. He thinks of a town, not the town.

It is by no means a beautiful city; it is all concrete and steel, buildings that go up in moments and fall back down because nobody sees any point in cherishing what will likely come down in any moment. A myriad of faces come and go, a yellow umbrella, a blue coat...

And yet remembers a time when the buildings were not so tall, the sky not as smokey and the crowds smaller. He hears the bombs coming down, the wooden houses burning one by one with the people inside.

Not again, not again, not –

The memory ends. He returns to the Love Hotel room, where Yao is licking the vestige of the old wound at the juncture of his hip. He shudders; the other's touch is painfully tender, and he can almost feel the snide expression on the other's face because he is reacting _splendidly _to Yao's attention. Certainly, the blood is rushing _between his legs_.

He crawls forward, on all fours, as Yao continues to brush his lips against his exposed skin, occasionally grazing his teeth over scar tissue. Kiku feels hands under his belly, pressing him into an embrace, tracing long-healed gashes on his chest. The fingers move to his entrance, slicking it with lubricant from the jar on the nightstand.

It is time. He must never finish without the permission of Big Brother.

Yao eases in; in a manner routine to the point of absurdity. Kiku feels himself being opened as the other slides in, just like that. He feels his member being seized and roughly stroked as other moves inside him with a beastly fervor. A cry escapes Kiku's mouth, beastly, shameless, as the thrusts become more and more violent, the hand clenched around him teasing out his normally-restrained voice. He feels his body react, clench and relax of its own accord. He does not yell "stop!", but clutches the gaudy pillows on the bed as he feels the other bite down, hard, on his shoulder. How shameless, Yao sneers, clutching him close as death. Yao yanks the other's hair, and Kiku calls out a name he's reserved for the occasion, loud enough that the room adjacent would have heard, if not for the soundproof walls. Yao urges him to scream louder, louder, taunting the other with slurs and jeers in his native tongue.

_Dog. Pig. Impotent bastard. I could give you one hundred gashes for this one._

Kiku returns fire, taunting him with _is that the best you can come up with, Ni-ni?_

For this Yao slams his head against the bed. A muffled groan as he pins Kiku down with one hand, smothering him.

Yao does not stop thrusting and stroking until he feels both of them shudder, then lie in place, panting for air and hot and sticky with cum. He withdraws, and Kiku experiences the odd feeling of being emptied, slick member sliding out of him. Yao forces Kiku to look him face-on, claiming the other's mouth with his tongue. Hands on the other's back; it is now that Big Brother is tender, entwining their fingers like so. Another kiss, lighter, on the forehead. A reward for good behavior; it is now that Big Brother is truly kind, truly tender to his dearest child.

Moments later, they rise to bathe together in the bathroom. Ritually, Kiku turns on the water, running his hand through it to test the temperature. He smoothes a bar of soap over the raised skin of the scar he inflicted. Rinse, repeat. They sit in the bathtub, not deigning to continue the act of "love"-making.

They dry themselves off without assistance and climb into the covers, moving to opposite ends of the mattress. Tonight, they'll share a bed, but by morning they'll part, not to speak of what has transpired inside this room. Some things are better left unspoken by daylight.

A/N: You can probably fill the in the gaps for yourself on what the scars represent. I left the language purposefully vague; I suppose these two don't remember the events of the war perfectly.

Critique is welcome, especially with the smut part _


End file.
